


Retribution

by ElizabethDurham



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Kidnapping, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethDurham/pseuds/ElizabethDurham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft have always been at each other's throats, always a moment away from killing each other, or the world in general. When one of their little feuds gets out of hand and Mycroft kidnaps John Watson, the question becomes not 'if' Sherlock's retribution will destroy a good part of London, but rather 'when.' That's where Q and Bond step in. A story of the three Holmes brothers and their respective partners, their weaknesses, and their devastating power. </p>
<p>(Sequel to 'Get Him Out', but may easily be read as a stand-alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any confusion! I posted a chapter of 'April Fool's' accidentally.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft are at each other's throats again. this time, John's been kidnapped. And Q's stuck in the middle.

“Sherlock, what do you want?”  
“What, you mean I can’t just call to say hello?” Sherlock joked, but there was an undertone of uncertainty to his words. Q sighed, rubbing his forehead and temporarily cutting off the link to 002’s field mic.  
“Has John been at you again?” Q asked, though he already knew the answer. Sherlock’s little huff at the other end confirmed his suspicions,  
“He says I should try to be self-deprecating every once in a while, and since I’ve observed most of the world seems to appreciate humor in its baser forms, I tried to establish a joke around my usual efficiency of communication.”  
Q snorted,  
“I’d leave off the humor, Sherlock. At least where I’m concerned.”  
“That’s what I said!” Sherlock all but shouted, “I said, Q knows me. He knows I’m not the sort to be…to be…” a pause, then, that one word, almost dragged from his mouth, “friendly.”  
Q reached for his tea, standing up and gesturing wordlessly to one of his subordinates to take over 002’s line. It wasn’t a high-priority mission, something to do with a diplomat whose wife was suspected as a mole. He could spare a few minutes.  
Q had a private office at MI6, even if he rarely used it. The walls were frosted glass patricians connected with titanium supports that would extend to cover the more vulnerable glass in the event of a security breech. Inside, the room was Spartan, neat, owing to Q’s habit of conducting business in the main room, where people could reach him easily. Nevertheless, in times such as this, it was nice to have a private retreat.  
“You’re right,” he continued into the little mobile device, “friendly doesn’t suit you. I don’t know why John and Mycroft don’t just accept that.”  
Silence.  
“Sherlock?” Q asked, wondering if his impatient older brother had wandered off. It wouldn’t be the first time.  
“Don’t,” the detective’s voice cut in.  
“Sorry?”  
“His name is not to be mentioned.”  
Q sighed again, wondering what Mycroft had done to annoy Sherlock this time. Or vice versa. He could never tell.  
“What is it now?”  
“That…that…” for once, Sherlock seemed lost for words, “arrogant prick-“  
“Sherlock, calm down,” Q advised, spinning around in his swivel chair as he only did when talking with Sherlock; it was cathartic, and he defiantly needed to be the calm one in this equation, as Sherlock seemed determined to remain in his little huff. Again, not a first.  
“Calm down?” Now he really was shouting, “Calm down? Do you know, our dear brother walked in here this afternoon and…and…”  
Again, words seemed to fail him. Q began to worry. Once was an anomaly, but twice? The last time Mycroft had upset Sherlock this badly, half of the London government had been caught in the crossfire. Mycroft may have wielded more power, but Sherlock had a vindictive streak a mile long and, if Q was honest with himself, when it came to choosing sides, he almost always went with Sherlock.  
“What happened?” Q asked, keeping his voice even.  
“John!” Sherlock finally blurted out, “He took John! He said it was for some bloody security clearance test, but he’s been gone for a day, Quinten!”  
Q’s mouth opened and stayed frozen in a little ‘O’ of surprise. Sherlock was near to tears, and Q didn’t blame him. Mycroft had taken John? Was the man mad? Did he want Sherlock to try his hand at destroying all of England?  
“Sherlock…Sherlock, are you sure?” he choked, still wondering when he had last spoken to their eldest brother, and mentally re-checking to make absolutely sure the man had been of sound mind.  
“Of course I’m sure, Quinten!” Sherlock roared, and Q held the mouthpiece a good foot from his ear for the next few minutes in lieu of another such volume increase.  
“Fine,” again, attempting to remain calm, for his brother’s sake, fingers already typing away at his computer, “did you insert that chip into John’s shoulder? The one I gave you?”  
“Of course! Mycroft shut it down. I traced the signal to King’s Street, and found the chip there. Must have had a bloody surgeon go after it.”  
Q pulled of John’s tracking information on his screen, confirming what Sherlock said. Not that he’d really expected anything less of Mycroft.  
“Did he tell you anything else, besides this…security check? Something about why he was taken?”  
“No!” Q was very glad he had distanced his eardrum from the receiver.  
“Sherlock, what did you do to him?”  
Static through the earpiece. Q sighed for the third time so far. Of course it had to be Sherlock. Mycroft was nothing if not logical; the only reason he would have gone after Sherlock in such a fashion would be if Sherlock had in turn gone after Mycroft. The two brother’s petty feud had been known to lead to everything from seemingly random explosions to public scandals. Kidnapping, however, was most defiantly a first for them.  
“It wasn’t that bad!” Q heard the whine emanating from the phone and made a mental note to ask John to bring it up with his lover.  
“Sherlock, just tell me,” Q commanded and, amazingly, Sherlock obeyed.  
“It was Anthea. Well, Anthea and Mycroft’s bloody power complex,” A rattling sigh through the speaker, “Mycroft tried his ‘black-car-cloak-and-dagger routine on me. The pompous brat. I was halfway through a case, so I…” a moment’s hesitation, “I suggested the driver turn around, and rendered Anthea unable to protest.”  
Q let his head bang against the table with a rather alarming thump. Fuck it all, would the two ever learn?  
A red light flashed on his desk, and he looked up to see Warren, one of Q’s underlings, standing nervously before him. Q motioned with two fingers for him to speak:  
“Q, sir. It’s 007. He was supposed to be recuperating in Bombay before returning, but…” the boy trailed off. Q didn’t let him finish. He leapt from his chair, holding the phone between ear and shoulder as he re-positioned himself on his raised plinth in the center of Q-Branch, watching with utter disbelief as the damned agent managed to turn a few days of doctor-prescribed rest into a firefight in the middle of an Indian bazaar. (Why did these things never happen in quite places? Q lamented to himself. Always the open Bazaars, or the subway stations. It was like Bond purposefully sought out the most stressful environment and then conjured up one of his ever-constant assassins for a street duel.)  
“Sherlock?” Q barked into the mouthpiece.  
“007 behaving like the petulant child he is?”  
“You really shouldn’t be talking,” Q replied acerbically.  
“Deal with your boy toy. I’ll be here when you’ve finished. Five minutes, Quinten.”  
“Was that a challenge?”  
“Is it ever not?”  
Q grinned, dropping the phone as static filled his ears, then the click of a disconnected call.  
“Warren!” he snapped, watching as the young man hurried forward with his com set and – surprising, but not unwelcome – a freshly brewed cup of earl grey. Q nodded appreciatively, and activated the communication device.  
“Bond, do you read me?” he called out.  
“Q? Is that you? Thank god, that other kid is an absolute idiot.”  
“That ‘kid,’ is only a year younger than I am,” Q pointed out, temper still sharp from the stress of his two brothers at it again.  
“Touchy, are we?” Bond muttered between shots, hiding behind an overturned watermelon crate that was exploding in almost comically juicy bursts.  
“How do you do that?” Q asked, a bit in awe.  
“Do what?”  
“Manage to manufacture the most ridiculously clichéd scene imaginable. I mean, a fruit stand, really, Bond? How?”  
“Not an interesting question,” he grunted, sprinting out for the relatively safer cover of a recessed doorway, popping off a few rounds as he went, his tailored suit moving impossibly on that lithe frame in a way that made Q’s stomach turn itself into even more impossible knots.  
“An interesting question is,” he continued, not even breathing hard, “what has my quartermaster so on edge?”  
“Not now, Bond!” Q hissed, very aware that all of Q-Branch was watching them curiously. Not that their relationship was a secret, not with two months past since Bond had helped him carry a bleeding Sherlock to his apartment, but still, public displays of affection would always remain outside the quartermaster’s comfort zone.  
“If not now, when?” Bond lamented jokingly, peeking around the corner and almost getting his nose sheered off for the trouble. Q sucked in a breath. “This may be the only time you’re occupationally obliged to listen to me, and I know the moment we’re home, you’ll start pretending to go mysteriously deaf whenever I broach the subject. Besides,” the agent added with a wicked grin, “I’m bored.”  
Q chocked on his tea,  
“You’re bored? Bored? Bond, the answer to the question I am about to ask will decide whether or not you get that exploding pen I already have waiting. Did you get into a firefight in a Bombay Bazaar simply because you were bored?”  
“Not as such, no,” Bond mused, somehow engaged in hand-to-hand combat again, though Q was sure they both had guns, “But stick me on doctor mandated sick leave again, and I may be tempted. Now, about your little hissy fit.” A grunt. Q watched Bond deal a crushing blow to the base of the man’s skull.  
“It wasn’t a hissy fit,” he argued, “I’m just a bit tense, that’s all.”  
“Precisely,” Bond grinned, shooting a second man in the forehead as he flew out into the open bazaar again. Q really hoped it wasn’t a civilian. The paperwork would be a nightmare, “and I know of only three things that could get you tense enough to snap. Me, problems at work, and your brothers. It wasn’t me, and from your assistant’s rather airy manner, MI6 isn’t going down in flame, so what have your two devilish brothers done now? You know, I still haven’t met the other one, Mycroft, is it?”  
Q moaned, smacking his forehead against the desk again as everyone in Q branch stared. It wasn’t common knowledge that Q had a brother, let alone two. Q wondered just how many Internet searches would be done on the name ‘Mycroft’ before the day was out.  
“Bond, are you trying to manipulate my subordinates, because you’re doing a right fine job of it.”  
Bond, the bastard, chuckled, striding away from the Bazaar minus about two clips, plus a healthy number of bruise, and with another headache for M and Q to deal with when he came home,  
“Q, I have a very long, very monotonous car ride, then a plane ride, ahead of me. Start talking.”  
Q realized he was done for. If he didn’t’ tell bond now, he would suffer the consequences later. Might as well get it over with.  
“It’s Sherlock and Mycroft,” he began, “they’re at each other’s throats again.”  
“And that concerns you how?” bond asked. Q grinned without humor,  
“Bond, the last time Mycroft and Sherlock went at each other, two people died, four government officials lost their jobs, Sherlock was caught in some sort of chemical explosion, and Mycroft was trapped in an elevator shaft for a few hours. Oh, and a cruise ship was stranded in the middle of the ocean. Not to mention the little scandals and injuries that stayed behind closed doors.”  
“So? How is it your problem?”  
Q rubbed the bridge of his nose,  
“Last time, it was over a broken teakettle. This time, Mycroft’s gone and kidnapped Sherlock’s lover. I don’t think a nuclear apocalypse is too far beyond them at this point. They’re my brothers, Bond. This is my country. I do have some responsibility.”  
Bond was silent for a moment. Then,  
“Do you need help?”  
Q started. Help? Of course he needed help. Both his brothers were as brilliant, if not more so, than he. The idea of taking them on alone was daunting. But could he ask that of Bond?  
“Bond, I’m not sure you want to get involved in this one,” Q confided. Bond laughed.  
“Q, darling, I’m already in this. Besides,” he added, “I did say I wanted to meet Mycroft.”


	2. Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is kidnapped, John is tied to a chair, Moriarty just kind of shows up.

Mycroft was, as usual, in the Diogenes club when Q called. He had texted first, but Mycroft never texted if he could call, while Q never called if he could text. When his text went ignored for the better part of two hours though, he finally broke, dialing his brother’s number and trying to keep his voice even:  
“Mycroft?”  
“Quinten? I’m rather busy at the moment, what do you want?”  
“I want to know what you’ve done with John.”  
“Sherlock called you, did he?”  
“No,” Q lied, hoping not to direct any more of the government titan’s fury onto the consulting detective.  
“How?” Mycroft demanded.   
Q hesitated for a beat, not long enough to arouse his brother’s suspicions, then said:  
“I have a camera on Sherlock’s house. I saw you leave with him, then Sherlock going mad.” It was a guess, but, knowing both John and Sherlock, a valid one. Mycroft, at least, seemed to accept it. He sighed over the phone,  
“Q, stay out of it. This is between Sherlock and myself; it has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”  
“It has everything to do with me if you two plan on another all-out war like last time.”  
“Last time Sherlock deserved it.”  
“This time, I’m not so sure. John, Mycroft? Really?”  
“It was necessary.”  
“It bloody well wasn’t. I took your side on the last one, but in this, I think I’m with Sherlock.”  
“I said, this is none of your concern, Quinten. Must I enforce my decision?” Mycroft’s soft, deadly purr was usually enough to have his subordinates running for cover, but Q wasn’t one of Mycroft’s squeals. He just frowned, saying:  
“Mycroft, you know in this argument, at least, I am neutral ground. Neither you or Sherlock will do anything to harm me.”  
“Oh? Won’t we? As soon as you join in, you are officially part of the game. As is your Mr. Bond.”   
Q snorted,  
“Mycroft, there’s no fun in getting to me, and I doubt there’s a man in your organization who could take Bond down. Enough of this. Stop now, or I give in to Sherlock’s side, and this all goes down in fire.”  
“It would end in fire with or without your help, Quinten, don’t flatter yourself,” Mycroft drawled. Q scowled,  
“Right, just thought it fair to warn you. Have you established an endgame yet?”   
Despite all outward appearances, Mycroft and Sherlock’s feuds were, surprisingly, quite sophisticated, orderly contests. In planning, at least. There was the starting offence, then the retaliation, then the two met to determine what circumstances would mark each participant the winner of the contest. Then, of course, it all went to hell, but the intent was there.   
“Talk to Sherlock,” was all he said, ringing off with a rather annoyed ‘click.’ Q shook his head, moaning slightly to himself and trying his best not to slap his own forehead with the palm of his hand.   
“Trouble with the brothers?”   
Q turned, knowing what he would see before he saw it. Bond, walking in with a slight limp, a long bruise down one side of his face, his usual cocky smile still firmly attached. Q grinned back, getting up and hugging the bigger man gingerly around the middle, noting the way Bond’s breath caught as he squeezed between the third and fourth ribs. Probably cracked, he decided, and once again cursed the man he had been stupid enough to fall in love with.   
“Will you ever come back in one piece?” he lamented. Bond smiled,  
“If I do, you’ll know it’s time for me to retire.”  
“Or I’ll just know you’ve finally figured out the purpose of your missions, 007.”   
“What?” Bond made a face of mock-hurt, “I’m offended, Q, really I am.”  
“Hm, of course,” Q mused, making his way back to his desk and tying up the last loose ends for the day, “’getting shot at many more times than necessary’ is defiantly in the job description.”  
“And being utterly, impossibly irresistible is defiantly in yours.”   
Q never figure doubt how Bond, who was easily a head taller than anyone in Q-branch, could move so quickly and so silently that Q never heard him coming until he felt the light brush of the agent’s breath along his neck. It was unnatural.   
“Save it for tonight, Bond,” he instructed, closing out of the last few windows he had open and answering a few last-minute e-mails before standing up and fetching his coat, “you won’t have long to wait, in any case. I need a rest.”   
He turned on his heel and marched out of Q-Branch, hoping bond was still on his tail.   
He was. 

The ride to Q’s apartment was silent, Bond seeming to relish the normalcy, Q in his thoughts. He wasn’t keen on getting involved with his brothers, really, but in this, Mycroft was in the wrong. He knew Sherlock. He had to have known how Sherlock would react to the black car trick. And to take john? Some lines were just never meant to be crossed.   
“Q, you’re a thousand miles away,” Bond cut in lightly, taking Q’s chin in his callused hand and turning it so he could look into Q’s eyes.   
Q smiled apologetically,  
“Sorry, Bond. It’s just…Sherlock. And Mycroft. It’s never been easy with them.”   
“I imagine no-“ Bond began, only to be cut off by the ring of Q’s phone. Q held up a finger, brushing it across Bond’s lips as he retrieved the tiny cellular device, flicking it open to display Sherlock’s name. He sighed, and answered it.  
“Q?”  
“Yes, of course. What is it now?”  
“I…” a pause, “I heard your conversation with Mycroft.”  
“Sherlock! If you’ve bugged my phone…!”  
“No! Of course not. Don’t think I could if I wanted to, but Mycroft’s….”   
Q shut his eyes, wishing he could block out Sherlock as easily,  
“Does Mycroft know?”  
“Obviously not. It was merely a precaution. Then, of course, John disappeared, and it became a necessity.”  
“Alright, I’m not going to get into that one just now,” Q relented, “but why have you called me?”  
“You wanted to know the endgame. John told me it’s polite to pretend like you haven’t listened in if you heard or deduced what someone was saying on the phone, so I waited a few hours, but if you’re going to help me, you probably should know.”  
Help? Ah. Q remembered. He had told Mycroft he would side with Sherlock this time. And he would, but he would have liked to tell Sherlock that for himself.   
“Yes. Fine. But listen to John’s advice next time. And for more than an hour.”  
“Yes, mother,” Sherlock grumbled, “do you want to hear the endgame, or not?”   
“Give it to me.”  
“If Mycroft keeps John for a week, I loose, John is released, and Mycroft continues with his black car and texting assistant. If I get John back before the allotted time span, I win, and Mycroft has to text me if he ever wants to meet up.”  
Q raised an eyebrow. The stakes were fairly high, all things considered, in pride if not in physicalities. For Sherlock to agree to being ferried about by his brother, and for Mycroft to agree to degrade his requests to texts, they must have really irked each other.   
“A week from when?” Q asked.   
“Yesterday. Will you and Bond help? Pass the phone over and I’ll explain if you don’t want to.”  
“How do you know he’s with me?”  
“How could I not?”  
“Sherlock!” Q wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s games.   
“Let me talk to him,” Bond reached over, plucking the little device from Q’s hands without another word and barking into the mouthpiece, “Sherlock? It’s Bond. What do you need us to do?”  
“Bond!” Q scrabbled uselessly at the agent’s bulky forearms, trying in vain to retrieve his mobile before slouching back mutinously in the seat, muttering, “it’s not safe to drive and talk at the same time, you know.”   
Bond didn’t even dignify that with a response.  
“Mr. Bond,” Q could hear Sherlock’s voice, loud as it was, “I’m assuming this means you are willing to assist?”  
Bond shot Q a questioning look. Q nodded tiredly; it wasn’t as if he was going to refuse. Mycroft had gone too far this time. He’d gotten too used to winning without contest, what with his growing resources and Sherlock’s growing preoccupation in his ever-heightening number of cases. Q meant to change that.  
“That’s correct,” Bond confirmed, taking the next corner in a tight, controlled skid at much too high a speed, throwing Q against his shoulder, talking in the same smooth, level tone.”  
“Thank you Bond,” Sherlock commented, “May I come over to your flat, Q? Mycroft’s got mine watched, and I am rather more discreet than you and Bond on my own.”  
Bond began to protest, but Q held up a hand, using Bond’s momentary preoccupation to snatch the phone back.   
“Point taken,” he said briskly, “We’ll meet you at the back door in ten.”  
There was a click at the end of the line and Q flipped the phone shut, storing it away in his breast pocket. Bond kept his eyes on the road, lips mashed into a thin line. Q glared,  
“What?” he asked.  
“Nothing,” Bond muttered airily, pulling into Q’s driveway and parking beneath an overhang. Q rolled his eyes,  
“Yes. Just as my comments on your marksmanship were ‘nothing.’”  
Bond sighed, turning off the car and looking over at Q,  
“I’m a spy, Q. You work for MI-6. Your brother may be good, but to say he’s more discreet than us? I have some professional pride.”  
Q laughed, getting out of the ridiculously flashy sports car (Bond’s, of course) and slamming the door behind him.  
“Bond,” he giggled, “how can you have lived with me for a month and not realized I am rather prone to tripping over flat, stable surfaces?”  
Bond shook his head, attempting to retain some sort of disappointment in his face, but under the circumstances able to muster only a sort of pained expression that comes from trying to hold in laughter for too long. Q threw one arm around 007’s neck, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss.

“Q?”  
“In here, Sherlock!” Q called from the mini kitchen, stamping down the stairs to the cellar entrance and hauling up the trap door disguised as a coffee table to allow his brother through, “you could have let yourself in,” he grumbled, returning to finish his cup of earl grey. Bond had coffee, but that was no surprise, “tea or coffee, Sherlock?” Q asked. Sherlock shook his head,  
“No time. Mycroft’ll get suspicious if I don’t move the dummy I set up in Baker’s street window soon.”  
Q raised an eyebrow, savoring a sip of his aromatic brew with a satisfied sigh,  
“Suit yourself.”  
Sherlock was wearing his usual tailored suit, but beyond that, Q hardly recognized him. Bond wouldn’t have known the detective for himself, had Q not referred to him by name. IN place of his casual button-downs and belstaff wool coat, he wore a long suit jacket with honest to god tails and a snow-white undershirt with a red tie. His hair was slicked back in a smooth, regular pattern, and his already effeminate face had been rendered astonishingly so with what Bond suspected was a touch of make-up. He looked….dapper. Beautiful. He looked like he had stepped out of the page of GQ and into their little flat without taking a breath.  
“Infiltrating one of Mycroft’s little gatherings?” Q asked, glancing up only briefly to take in his brother’s appearance.  
“As much as one can,” Sherlock replied, the annoyance clear in his sharp tone, “have I mentioned how much I detest security personnel? You’d think I was trying to bomb Buckingham palace the way they were going on.”  
“Find out anything interesting?”   
Sherlock sat down across from the duo, loosening his tie with nervous fingers, feet tapping out a pattern on the floor,  
“No!” he growled, “not one damned thing! John’s been missing now for over 74 hours, and I haven’t a damned idea where he is!”  
Q took one look at Sherlock’s frenzied eyes and got up, going to the purring coffee machine and pouring Sherlock a mug. Black. Two sugars. He slid it across the table to Sherlock with a little nod. Sherlock accepted it gratefully, taking a noisy sip and relaxing visibly into his seat. Bond raised an eyebrow.  
“Caffeine,” Q clarified, “calms his nerves.”  
Bond shook his head. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t care. All he cared about was the objective,  
“So, Mr. Holmes,” he began, only to find the detective’s eyes trained on him with unwavering anger and revulsion.  
“Don’t,” he practically hissed, “he’s Mr. Holmes.”  
Q fought the urge to roll his eyes,  
“Bond, why don’t you go get ready for bed. I’ll handle Sherlock.”  
Bond stayed rooted where he was. Q moaned slightly to himself at the difficulty of brothers and the stubbornness of 00 agents.   
“Yes, I will fill you in on the details later, yes I do have a camera on this room if you want to watch the footage, and yes I still have the panic button under the table to press at a moment’s notice. Now please, James,” Q implored, deliberately employing Bond’s first name, “go to bed. Before one of you kills each other.” 

In the end, Bond did go to sleep, wrapping himself in the entirety of their king-sized duvet. From the look on Q’s face as he settled in with Sherlock, Bond doubted he’d be joining him any time soon. So he slept.   
Until, that is, he heard a crash out the bedroom window and a high, squealing sound that could only have been made by one person. Bond had dropped a paperweight on Q’s toe once; he had made that precise noise, a fact for which Bond would forever tease him.   
“Q!” Sherlock’s voice. Bond was out of bed in a heartbeat, not even bothering to throw on his cloths, sweeping up his Walter PPK from the nightstand in one smooth motion and practically diving down the steps.   
“Mycroft! Don’t you bloody-“  
Whatever he was about to say was cut off as one of the three black-masked men raised a knife to Q’s throat, Q’s fingers, genius across a keyboard, utterly useless as they scrabbled against the man’s thick forearm.   
“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock growled, eyes narrowed.   
The second man laughed,  
“Try us, sweetheart.”   
The man holding Q moved the knife very slowly down to Q’s arm, caressing the skin lightly with the razor-sharp edge. The intention was clear; he might not be authorized to kill Q, but that didn’t mean he was above damaging him.   
Bond had seen enough. He fired two quick bursts, one going through the first man’s chest, the other through the head of Q’s captor. Q collapsed on the floor, breathing hard.   
“Q, are you all right?” Bond asked, gun still raised, trained on the third man.   
“Fine, Bond,” Q coughed. Sherlock was already at his side, helping him to the couch, handing him his unfinished earl grey, his face stone cold and mutinous.   
“I’ll check outside,” Bond decided, “I doubt your brother sent just these three in for us.” he pulled off a third shot, sending it through the last man’s shoulder blade. Painful, but not fatal. As long as Q called an ambulance in time. And, well, Bond decided, that was Q’s choice to make.   
“Careful, Bond,” Q called after the agent, coughing again. Bond ignored him. He crept down the stairs to the first level of their building, peeking carefully out into the night, down hallways, in closets, anywhere a possible assassin could be hiding.   
“Bond!” Sherlock. Sharp. Commanding. Bond didn’t respond; if there were other hostiles hidden around the perimeter, calling back would be as good as sending up a flare.   
“Bond, get back here now!” Sherlock yelled, followed by Q’s  
“Bond, for the love of god, get back here!”  
Something that sounded suspiciously like a pitched argument between the two Holmes brothers, then Q:  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, if you love me, Bond, get up here.”   
Bond couldn’t hold back a little grin. Now there was an oath he could take. However, oath or not, Q was Q, and James Bond was James Bond, and when it came to reconnaissance and sneaking about with a gun in hand, Bond trusted no one’s advice but his own.   
He began to re-think that opinion when a swarm of men in matching black poured out of an alleyway to his left, clearly waiting for him to emerge from the building so they could wrap him in thick rope, drop a sack over his head, and stuff a gag in his mouth. Agent 007 felt them hustle him into a low car, heard the start of an engine, felt some sort of drug enter his system, then felt no more. 

Bond came to tied to an honest-to-god chair, hands cuffed behind him, feet tied to the legs. He almost groaned aloud. Sometimes he wondered how it was that his life resembled a walking cliché.   
“Mate, are you awake?” Bond turned around so quickly he could feel his neck straining. Still, the position of the ropes and his chair kept him from seeing the other man.   
“Yes. And who might you be?” He asked, tugging experimentally on the cuffs and studying the ropes that bound his feet. Both were secure, impressively so.   
“John. John Watson. You?”  
“Bond, James Bond,” Bond replied distractedly, rocking back and forth in the hopes he could gain some leverage. He couldn’t, “any idea who I have to thank for this?” he asked. John shrugged,  
“Not my department. Usually my partner does the thinking, I just hold the gun.”  
Bond smirked. It sounded familiar enough.   
“Who’s your partner?” he asked, more out of the inevitable boredom of capture than from actual interest.  
“His name’s Sherlock Holmes, if you can believe it. Bloody ridiculous name, I know, but the man’s a genius.” John lapsed into silence again, staring pensively up at the ceiling with a slight frown on his face.   
Bond, for his part, was just staring, mouth slightly open, as the pieces began to fall into place. John Watson. Now he remembered the name. And Sherlock Holmes. The army doctor and the detective.   
“John Watson?” he confirmed, “your partner’s the consulting detective?”  
“Yeah,” John frowned, “do you know him?”  
“Met him once. I’m sleeping with his little brother,” Bond stated blandly. It was John’s turn to frown,  
“Sherlock has a little brother? Are you sure you don’t mean Mycroft, because Mycroft’s at least a few years older, Bond.”  
“So you know Mycroft, too?” Bond asked, concentrating. Q had said Mycroft had kidnapped John because of his little feud with Sherlock. That meant that he, in turn, had been taken by the government official.  
“Yeah. Not the sort I’d want to cross, given the choice,” john mused. Bond laughed,  
“Too late now,” he muttered, “Sherlock’s younger brother, Q, said Sherlock’s in a bit of a panic because Mycroft had gotten you.”  
“Makes sense,” John said, much calmer than Bond had anticipated, “can’t say I’m not cross with the both of them, but I’m not surprised.” He must have seen the confusion on bond’s slightly turned face, because he added, “they’re brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock. They argue. And, well, when one brother controls the government and the other has more willpower and genius than he knows what to do with, things get complicated.”  
Bond groaned. He hated kidnappings; messy, complicated, inefficient affairs, the lot of them. And kidnappings within the family? Not good.   
“What’s Mycroft like?” Bond asked. First rule of espionage: collect information.   
John thought for a moment, “he’s…I don’t really know how to describe the man. He’s very much like Sherlock in a lot of ways. He’s brilliant, holds himself above it all, you know? But at the same time, they’re like night and day. Mycroft doesn’t let his emotions rule him; he’s a man of quite purpose, where Sherlock’s all fire and rage. He’s the perfect politician.”  
“The iceman.”   
Bond didn’t even bother straining his neck again at the new voice. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see. He didn’t have to wait long in any case.   
The man that sauntered out in front of him was short, unimposing, with cropped brown hair and wide, fawn-like eyes, wearing a well-cut suit, hands stuffed in the pockets. He didn’t look like any politician Bond had ever met. His eyes held too much emotion. Too much purpose.   
“Moriarty,” john whispered. The man, Moriarty, smiled.   
“That’s right, dears. So sorry to disappoint, but you won’t be seeing your precious iceman any time soon.”  
“You’re not Mycroft?” Bond asked, mind trying to keep up with the strange turn of events, and failing.   
“Sadly, no,” Moriarty grinned, “You can call me Jim. Jim Moriarty. Hi.”  
“What do you want with us?” John growled. Jim grinned again, teeth stretched impossibly wide,   
“I want to kill you, isn’t that obvious? Not immediately, but that is the general idea.”  
“Why?”  
“Haven’t; you ever heard of something called fun?”

**Author's Note:**

> Please read 'Get Him Out' if you enjoyed this! Thanks for reading!


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